Even When The Music's Gone
by Trust Gavroche
Summary: Cosette longing for Marius after he dies at the barricade. Canon-era AU. One-shot. Rated T just to be safe.


**A/N: This was brought on by the prompt of "Cosette longing for Marius after he dies at the barricade," which was inspired by the title, which was given to me by That Creative One, who (I believe) got it from Taylor Swift's "Safe And Sound." In case you can't tell, this is an AU in which Marius and Cosette are together for a longer time, and Marius dies at the barricade. This is my first time writing from Cosette's point of view, and also a rarity because I wrote it in first person, but I'm quite pleased with how it turned out. I am aware that the tense changes, and that's because Cosette is reminiscing. There are quite a few references from the movie and the book, and I slightly altered Marius's letter to Cosette in the musical. Oh, and sorry about the crappy ending, I'm definitely not the greatest at ending stories. Enjoy!**

**-Vroche**

* * *

Papa gave me his letter on June 7th, 1832. It's been almost a year and I'm still not over him. Before him, there was no one to talk to except Papa. Before him...well, it's hard to remember the times before him.

I'd sneak out my window, late at night, when the garden and the world was silent except for the crickets chirping. The sky would be alive, awake, with hundreds of millions of stars, and I'd wait silently by the gate until he came. He always did. Sometimes trailed by a shadow so adept at hiding itself that I rarely got a glimpse of it, but he still came.

The first night was the best. It always is. I had met him in the streets the previous day, as Papa and I were assisting the poor, as usual. Our eyes had locked and it was as if there were some invisible, incredibly captivating signal running between us and neither of us could break the connection.

I remember the way his eyes were, hazel-colored with flecks of gold. His eyes are forever stained into my memory, like how if you look at something bright and then it flashes in front of you every time you blink. That's what it's like, missing him. Sometimes the grief and the pain and the emotion leaves for a short while, but it always returns, imprinted into my vision forever.

Ah, that first night... We introduced ourselves and then talked a while. Minutes, it seemed, although we were both surprised when he checked his pocket watch and a couple hours had passed. I remember the feel of his freckled hand on mine -oh, his freckles were like stars, all over and so captivating- through the cold iron of the gate. I don't think he minded that I was in my nightgown, and I surely didn't mind his well-worn, deep emerald-colored coat. We talked about our lives, about our favorite things, about everything. He told me about his friends, about his day, about his grandfather, and his political views. Papa has taught me many things, but there's so much to learn from one who hasn't been secluded all their life.

It was about a week before he came again. Every night, I would sit on the cold gray bench in the garden and wait for his arrival. This time, I let him in. The gate, I remember, squeaked as we pushed it open, but Papa didn't wake up. He seemed interested in our garden and so we spent the night walking so close our arms would touch, me pointing out the various vines and trees and flowers and herbs. He hadn't had any real environmental experience, so I let him taste the lemongrass and the mint and the basil.

The days flew by and soon we started seeing each other every night, when the moon was highest in the sky. One meeting we were holding hands, and the next, it seemed, we were kissing. It was my first kiss and I have absolutely no words to describe it except for magical.

Weeks soon flew by, too, and eventually he'd come at midnight and we'd stay up, just talking or enjoying each other's company, sometimes having a midnight snack, until the first rays of dawn were visible over the horizon. He was so easy to talk to, not like Papa who tries to be open and is very kind about everything but is still deep in a shell. We could talk forever, and I'd never get tired of hearing his voice. I'd never get tired of anything about him, especially that electric spark I felt whenever we touched. His voice wasn't completely deep, like the voices of other men I've heard, and still had that slight boyish tinge to it. It sounded like the music of angels.

Speaking of the music of angels, he could sing, and quite often it took my breath away. He composed a little song for me, and sometimes we'd sing it together, softly, so we wouldn't wake Papa.

He was the light of the sun and although I was often tired after our nightly meetings, I couldn't have been happier.

The last night I had with him wasn't anything out of the ordinary. We had sat, clasping each other's hand, backs against the tree trunk where I had discreetly carved our names together the week before. We had talked, as usual, and he had told me about the small fight he was planning to be in, with his friends, Les Amis, the following day. I didn't think much of it at the time, but looking back now, I think maybe he held me closer, a little tighter, than usual as he was departing. Maybe he knew.

A night passed without him coming, which was unusual, but I thought nothing of it at the time. Often I curse myself for being so naïve. Maybe I could have run after him, saved him, talked him out of fighting as a group of nine against a well-trained, well-stocked army of hundreds.

I remember I had been sitting on my bed, reading a new novel when Papa came in and handed me the letter. Strangely, he said nothing about the fact that I had been meeting someone for months, which I had been expecting him to do. Instead, he told me that a group of revolutionaries had built a barricade to withstand and hopefully overcome the National Guard. He told me the revolution had failed, that no one had survived. Papa said he had found the letter tucked in the iron gate. He probably left it there on that last night.

I've memorized the letter, over-analyzed it, and cried over it when no one is looking. It reads:

_Dearest Cosette,_

_You've entered my soul and soon you will be gone. It seems like only a day since we met and the world was reborn. If I should fall in the battle to come, let this be my goodbye. I know that you love me as well, and it is harder to die. I pray that God will bring me home to be with you. Pray for your Marius...he prays for you._

He signed it, too, in that lovely scrawled signature I'd recognize anywhere.

He's gone now. I never even got to see his body, although maybe that's for the best. The memories still linger, though. Sometimes I look out our tree and see him sitting under it, fiddling with a white scrap of cloth. That's why the windows are always closed and covered...it hurts too much to see him again. His angelic voice, freckled face, his tousled hair, his same tattered green coat, and his wonderfully unusual eyes and the softness of his lips and the warmness of his embrace.

I will always love you, Marius Pontmercy.


End file.
